Beyblade Fan Fiction ❯ Sooryavansham: The Dynasty of the Sun ❯ A Mule's Burden ( Chapter 7 )

Chapter 7!!

Disclaimer: Don't own it, don't pretend to own it; now lemme go write more Kai story!

Enjoy

Sooryavansham: The Dynasty of the Sun

By: Sholay

“Mad, adj: Affected with a high degree of intellectual independence.”

- Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)

Chapter 7: A Mule's Burden

The cloying white bellied plastic cuckoo bleats out its final call before retreating quickly into its safe wooden house, signaling the turn of the 21st hour. I'm back on my hands and knees cleaning various floors and tables. It's during these times that I truly appreciate and grieve the size of this place. In total there are seven small tables, five large ones and eight booths; how they all fit in here comfortably is an illogicality, considering the rather small circular room they are enclosed by.

At any rate, the restaurant had closed 3 hours ago and I am now undertaking the harrowing task of `extra cleaning' Mr. Huo so graciously `requested'. As to the actual subject matter that has been cleaned thus far… well, at the very least I can now fully understand the childish fear of looking in dark places.

It's disturbing to know all the various colors bread can turn while marinating under a table.

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and silently thank the heavens that all stores close at 6 here, not at 12 or 1 in the morning, like in Japan. I remember hearing the Huo's talking about keeping the restaurant open longer but in truth there were only so many unlawful actions one could do before gaining the unwanted attention of the government. As it was, we had already barely sidestepped the law by opening the restaurant, ours being the only one—aside from the grandiose Pushkin Café one could find the governmental reps dining at—in the entire city. Worse still is the fact that we do not limit our menu to Russian foods, but have added a generous smattering of Chinese cuisine as well, with the occasional Japanese dish thrown in.

I have a feeling though, that the couple would normally have no problem in protesting their rights—likely the reason they fled China—but were probably deterred by the thought of Sonya and Mikhail. Their compliance worked out fine for me, since the less attention I received the better; besides, only gangs and drunkards walk the streets after 6: not anything near the ideal, attractable consumer market. I just wonder sometimes at the twist of fate that threw the Huo's out of one communist regime, straight into another. The irony is almost cruel.

After at least an hour or two more of scrubbing passed before I feel, rather than hear, someone approach me from behind.

“Yes, Mrs. Huo?” I ask directly and hear her soft chuckle.

“I'll never understand how you do that, Kolya.”

I smirk as I continue scrubbing. She does not see this since I am still turned away from her.

“Practice.” I answer at length, feeling strangely as though I owe her some sort of response.

I hear the woman lower herself to kneel next to me, but I continue scrubbing, not wanting to see the soft, caring expression I know is on her face. I cannot allow myself to get carried away by insubstantial emotions: too weak to sustain time and too capricious to inspire truth. It is a simple fact of my life that I will not let myself be deceived by people pretending to care about me, not even the woman beside me can transcend that belief. I get the sense that Dranzer is disagreeing with me in the back of my mind but I ignore her. Not even she knows or sees everything I do.

“Kolya, I want to talk with you. I would appreciate it if you would look at me.” Mrs. Huo's voice is still soft, but admonishing.

I sigh mentally, but set down the cloth and soft metal mesh scrubber with which I am cleaning the floor. I rise until I'm sitting on my knees and look straight at Mrs. Huo. I study her: Mrs. Shiori Huo, thirty-something years old and proud owner of the most perpetuating aura of eudaemonia I have ever seen, real life difficulties pending. Her eyes are the color of deep emeralds and long, dark, auburn hair flows over her thin shoulders. When she smiles her whole face lights up and anyone in the vicinity suddenly feels hard pressed to remain in a dour mood.

Therein lies the ultimate reason I dislike looking at her full on. She is so incredibly happy; it is almost wrong, if there is such a thing… Moreover, I never liked the look in her eyes, faint, but there none the less.

It's the look of pity. A constant since the day she asked me if I had a home or family and gotten a short `not anymore' in response. The look of pity: the singular, uttermost, detested emotion that I simply cannot stand.

I realize suddenly that I am nearly glaring, no, scowling, at her, and I immediately look away. She never did anything to earn my anger or scorn. If anyone, I should be the one at the receiving end of her disdain. I have no right…

She sighs and I believe that she too understands how I cannot look at her and yet, she cannot understand why. I am glad though, when she drops the subject.

“Eli told me you wanted tomorrow off. Why didn't you say anything?”

I am taken aback by the strange question for a moment, having completely forgotten that in this family one has to ask for permission before doing something. The concept is so foreign to me. I am used to a more self serving way: do whatever you want until needed for a job; no room for discussion, just do what you're told, then you're free to do what you want. This, more communal method, confuses me sometimes for its inefficiency.

“I…was going to ask you after I finished cleaning.” I manage to say, not completely untruthfully. I would have told her I was leaving tonight after I finished cleaning.

Mrs. Huo smiles, “Kolya, you should go.”

“Huh?” Great, absolutely marvelous, even with my extensive vocabulary that's the only sound I can cough up? The Bladebreakers must have left a more permanent mark than I had thought, if their language is still affecting me.

“Eli and I will take care of the cleaning here.” She says, looking around, and seemingly overlooking my temporary speechlessness. “After all, there are only a couple of small tables left. You're very quick and effective. We can handle the rest. If you leave now you can catch the last train to Moscow and be there early tomorrow. Go on, you've done more than enough here.” She makes a small motion with her hands and it takes me a moment before I realize she is shooing me out.

I rise to my feet slowly, unsure at first, but when she doesn't go back on her words I take them for the truth and with a short nod leave the room in a quick walk. I fly up the stairs and the next thing I know, I'm in my room, yanking off my work clothes, but making sure to carefully take the time to undo the delicate buttons. I pull on my baggy black jeans, so faded they are grey in places, first doing up the belt then placing Dranzer and my book carefully in the right side flap pocket. Over my head is thrown my black and red sleeveless shirt which I promptly tug downward before closing the twin gold catches on each side near my neck. I place my work clothes attentively on my bed, I don't want them to get wrinkled, and grab my trench coat and red arm guards.

Walking towards my table I stop just short of it and bend down. Wedging nonexistent fingernails between the floorboards, I pop loose one of the dark-stained wood panels. Reaching down into the dark cavity created by the wooden joist and gyprock, I pull out a white bottle, cotton balls and a wallet with the identification papers my grandfather had made void a year ago, ignoring the other two black containers in the hole, I replace the floorboard. It is somewhat phantasticus; fantastic: reaching under the flooring as I am, but even I can appreciate a good hiding place: Mrs. Huo may have the finicky scruples of a museum curator, but somehow I doubt very much that she pulls out the very floorboards. I place the papers and wallet in my other side pocket, then head towards the bathroom, the white bottle hidden carefully out of sight; the coat covering my arm.

At the bathroom, I look around carefully then quickly enter and lock the door. Placing the arm guards and coat to the side I open the white bottle and ready a few cotton balls.

Make up remover.

Putting liberal amounts on the cotton, this job usually requires me to be generous, I then touch the cold cream to my check and without hesitation begin to swath my cheek in the gunk vigorously.

It is one of the reasons I had insisted on a salary. The couple might have thought it odd, since they were already offering both food and shelter. What else could I have possibly needed? Mr. Huo was very, incredibly, close to saying no; and I was insisting that they need not provide me food, when Mrs. Huo stepped in. She stood between us, at that time I assumed it was to stop us fighting; now I imagine it had been to prevent Mr. Huo from doing anything to me. I was in pretty pathetic shape; she probably thought he'd kill me, or something near it, for being `a greedy little street mongrel' as he had put it. But at that time I didn't care what he did. If they didn't pay me, I would have had to move on; I couldn't risk them figuring it out. They hadn't recognized it at first, but they had been suspicious and they were smart, they would have realized eventually. Moreover, they worked at a restaurant. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Huo may have been immigrants, isolated immigrants, illegal immigrants, but the customers most certainly were not. I would have been recognized in the same heartbeat that I stepped out there.

Finishing with the cotton, I reach for the facecloth.

But Mr. Huo relented. I was allowed a small monthly pay, not much but enough for what I needed: The ability to hide what they had taken for face paint, but in actuality, had taken paint to cover what is actually my face…

I pull the facecloth away: revealing the cursed four blue triangles tattooed across my face in all their demonic glory.

Drying off, I once again disposed of the evidence—the cotton balls—in the toilet, but before flushing, decide add to it the tissue wrapped around my arm. Tearing off the offending piece of paper, I see that some of it has stuck to my arm stubbornly. The offending pieces are soon torn off and I barely spare the angry gash a glance as I reach for my arm guards. The right one goes on first then I reach for the left. I pull the ring of material over my middle finger and cover the back of my hand, but pause before doing up the strap around my wrist.

Slowly, I bring the thumb of my other hand to the median nerve and move it in a circular pattern, tracing the shape of the tattoo on my inner wrist: five dark Prussian blue—nearly black— teardrops, arranged in a five point star.

Conditional reflex satisfied, I do up the strap on my wrist, and then the one below my elbow. It covers the torn flesh easily, and I twist the blade on the end so it faces away from me properly. I ignore once more the nagging feeling to wash the cut; I just don't have the time to reopen it right now. I'll do it later.

Gathering everything, a cursory glance is sent over the room, to make sure I didn't forget anything. There's a small drop of cream on the counter which I quickly wipe up; other than that, the bathroom is completely clean.

Heading back to my room, I hide everything back where it belongs. The bottle of cream goes next to its counterpart: the black rectangular case that holds the make up. Finding the right color had been a pain: I had left the store in a cranky mood with a terrified shopkeeper; who, on her part, had probably been wondering why I needed makeup in the first place. For my part, I was wondering how hard it could have possibly been to find the right shade, regardless of whether or not it was one of the paler shades that they rarely sold.

My hand pauses on the floorboard then, as I catch sight of the second black box within the floor. I reach out and hold the small thing in my hands; the soft wood is smooth on my palm and my thumb glosses over the delicate gold accents. I caress the side and my fingers reach inside to flick the box open…

My hand jerks back and a hiss escapes my lips. The box falls into the hole and I glare at it, but it only sits there, innocently reflecting the moonlight on its surface. I throw the board back on, blocking the box from both sight and mind.

Purposely stepping on the board—a poor attempt to regain control over the object in that box—I walk to my table where I grab my scarf. I fling it around my neck, tying the knot in the front then tossing my coat on, finally twisting the scarf around so the two ends swing freely behind me, the way I've always worn it.

Finally ready, I rush out of the room and am soon standing before Mrs. Huo, who has not moved from place on the ground where I had left her. She looks at me, and—no matter how fleeting and discreet the glance—I see her eyes lock on my face for a second; a ruminative frown and calculation settles for barely a moment before it's replaced by a smile as she looks me over completely. I'm glad that she didn't mention my face, and then realize she is smiling at me because of the incredibly short period of time I took in changing. I must have given her the impression that I am anxious to leave. Shifting my stance, I mentally force myself to be considerate.

“Are you certain you will be able to handle things here? I know Mr. Huo is still occupied with the paperwork. You will be left to look after the twins and close up alone. I—”

She places a hand over my mouth, I stop speaking, startled. I hadn't even noticed that she'd stood. Mrs. Huo laughs then.

“My, Kolya! I don't think I've ever heard you say so much at once!” She throws me a teasing grin. “Don't waste energy here. I may not really like that idea of you returning to the past that brought you to us half dead as you were (yes I know you're going back, I can tell from that paint you have on, you had the same thing on when you showed up on our doorstep), but I can see how excited you are, in spite of how you're trying to hide it. You aren't abandoning us, don't worry, we'll be FINE. So go already, it's only one day.”

And she pushes me towards the door gently.

I turn back to her and cannot resist a short bow,

“Arigato, Huo-san” Thank you, Mrs. Huo, Japanese, her native tongue. She looks at me oddly, probably detecting the lack of accent on the single word, but brushes it off. She probably believes I picked the word up somewhere and decided to impress her with it. Little does she know…

“I'll make it up by working twice as hard the day after, I owe you that much, since Mr. Huo is—”

Suddenly I freeze.

What did I just say?

For a second nothing is said, and I hope Mrs. Huo didn't catch the slip. She brows furrow and that hope is blown to pieces.

“Kolya?” Her voice is low, and I nearly cringe, but instead look away. `Fool. Idiot. You are never loose with your tongue. Never.' I mentally berate myself. ` “A mouth that moves without restraint deserves to be cut off.” Is that not what you learned? Mistakes are intolerable.'

“What is Eligio doing the day after tomorrow?” Mrs. Huo continues

I don't answer. I can't answer; bound by the promise, and ashamed of it.

“Kolya?” She says sharply. I look at her then just as quickly shift my gaze.

“Oh, Kolya,” Her voice softens and my gaze snaps up to hers in surprise. “He told you not to tell me, didn't he?” Her voice is understanding all of a sudden, and I don't have to answer her, just the way my eyes keep slipping from hers is answer enough.

“He's going out again,” she murmurs to herself. “Probably wanted to go out tomorrow, but you must have…” She looks at me but I don't answer, almost as though she is reading my mind, she immediately puts a hand on my shoulder.

“It's not your fault Kolya, not at all! You have just as much right to have a day off as anyone in this family, and tomorrow's special… I just,…well… It's our anniversary for God's sake.” The last part is quietly said to herself, but I couldn't help but overhear. The guilty feeling increases tenfold, I resist the urge to wince. `Their anniversary, of course…'

“I'm sorry.” I say, shaking my head, vocalizing the apology is hard, but I mean it. Something about this woman seems to inspire some latent sensitivity I never knew I had. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”

`Emotion. Another mistake… another mistake. Mistakes are intolerable. Mistakes are punishable.'

She looks at me with wide, shocked eyes. “No!” she interrupts quickly. “Don't say that!” She looks at me full on. “None of this is your fault, or even has anything to do with you. It's Eligio's stupidity and sooner or later it will hurt him just as much as it hurts us.”

Her voices softens and she brings her fingertips up to brush against a fading bruise on my tainted cheek,

“Really, I should be thanking you.” Her voice trembles and her eyes are unnaturally bright. The emotion is too heavy and this time I do flinch away. She stares at me sadly, but I turn away. I haven't done anything to deserve thanks. But there is nothing I can do now, just leave. So I head for the door.

“Bye,” I say back to her, so low the word barely reach even my own ears—it was not meant for her to hear—my hand rests on the doorknob.

“Kolya.”

I look at her over my shoulder. From what I can see she's twisting a rag between her fingers, her voice is still tight and I can tell she's fighting back tears.

“Come back…come back safely,” somehow I know she means it both ways. “If you…” she hesitates then takes a calming breath and continues. “If you so much as get a single scratch not only will I confine you to this house, but I'll personally go to Moscow and tear out the eyes of anyone who hurt you, got it?”

A fraction of a nod is my limited response and I'm out the door. The door snaps shut as I let it go and walk away quickly. I don't want to see the tears I caused.

Because of me the Huo's stay in Russia. Because of me Mr. Huo drowns himself in alcohol only to become a menace to his own family. Because of me they cannot even guarantee a future for their children. Because of me… all because of me…

It didn't matter that I try to help them as little as I can; in the end I only hurt them. It is, of course, typical that I remember now the last words my grandfather told me before throwing me out:

“A puppet whose strings have been cut— that is what you are. Maybe you can still provide some entertainment but really you're just a piece of wood for people to trip over. The puppet has use to its master only, but I have thrown you away. Now, you really wonder where you belong?”

His answer had been as twisted as his disgusting sneer:

“Why, in the trash; where else?”

End chapter 7.

TBC